trying circumstances. She was aware, as she came to a faltering halt, that her rescuer was not impressed.
'Must be a good leaper,' he observed drily, and went indoors.
Sally, bruised and weary, dragged herself homeward, took the pot from the larder shelf and threw it resolutely on to the rubbish heap.
Later that evening she thrust the exercise book into her fire, and holding it resolutely down with the poker, she watched it burn to ashes.
She had flown for the last time.
'Well, there it is, Miss Read,' said Mr Willet, rising from his chair. 'Take it or leave it. That's what Sally told my mother a year or two later, just afore she died.'
'I don't disbelieve you,' I said slowly. 'It's a wonderful story. It's just that-somehow—'
'Well, what?' asked Mr Willet, blowing out his moustache fiercely. 'Proper doubting Thomases, some people be!'
'It's just that it seems extraordinary that no one ever saw her. Particularly on the last journey, I mean.'
'Ah, but they did! There was two little boys, brothers they were, as had been sent down to the "Jug and Bottle." They saw Sally, and rope and all, skidding along over "The Beetle and Wedge," and tore 'ome to tell their mum and dad.
"Course, all they got was a clump on the ear-'ole for being such a pair of bars, so they never said no more. And years later, when the poor ol' girl had gone, the landlord at the pub said he'd seen her picking plums two or three times, but never liked to say so.'
'I wonder why not?' I exclaimed. Mr Willet sighed patiently.
'You a school teacher and you don't know 'uman nature yet!' he commented. 'Why, people don't mind being thought downright evil and wicked, but they fair hates to seem fools. Ain't you learned that yet, Miss Read?'
He opened the kitchen door and looked out into the windy darkness.
'That coke'll have to wait till morning now. Good-bye, miss, and thanks for the tea. See you bright and early.'
And he vanished into the night.
3. Jingle Bells
M R Willet was as good as his word, and next morning, 'bright and early,' I had my breakfast to the accompaniment of the brushing up of coke in the distance. He was still at it when I crossed to the school, wielding the broom vigorously in his capable hands, his breath wreathing his head in silvery clouds.
'Nasty cold morning,' I called to him, scurrying towards shelter.
'This keeps me warm,' he replied, pausing for a moment to rest on his broom. 'But I s'pose I shan't be doing this much longer.'
'Only three days,' I agreed. 'And then it's the lovely Christmas holidays!'
'You should be ashamed!' said Mr Willet reproachfully. 'Young woman like you, wishing your life away.'
But it was too cold to argue, and I only had time to wave to him before whisking into the shelter of the lobby.
The last day of term, particularly the Christmas term, has a splendour of its own. There is an air of excitement at the thought of pleasures and freedom to come, but there is also a feeling of relaxation from daily routine made much more acute by the deliciously empty desks. Books have been collected and stacked in neat piles in the cupboard. Papers and exercise books have been tidied away. All that remains to employ young hands in this last glorious day is a pencil and loose sheets of paper which have been saved for just such an occasion.
Of course, work will be done. There will be mental arithmetic, and some writing; perhaps some spelling lists and paper games, and stories told to each other. And today, the children knew, there would be Christmas carols, and a visit to the old grey church next door to see the crib recently set up by the vicar's wife and other ladies of the village. The very thought of it all created a glow which warmed the children despite the winter's cold.
They entered more exuberantly than ever, cherry-nosed, hair curling damply from the December air and Wellingtons plastered with Fairacre mud. I began to shoo them back into the lobby before our virago of a caretaker discovered them,
'Must be a good leaper,' he observed drily, and went indoors.
Sally, bruised and weary, dragged herself homeward, took the pot from the larder shelf and threw it resolutely on to the rubbish heap.
Later that evening she thrust the exercise book into her fire, and holding it resolutely down with the poker, she watched it burn to ashes.
She had flown for the last time.
'Well, there it is, Miss Read,' said Mr Willet, rising from his chair. 'Take it or leave it. That's what Sally told my mother a year or two later, just afore she died.'
'I don't disbelieve you,' I said slowly. 'It's a wonderful story. It's just that-somehow—'
'Well, what?' asked Mr Willet, blowing out his moustache fiercely. 'Proper doubting Thomases, some people be!'
'It's just that it seems extraordinary that no one ever saw her. Particularly on the last journey, I mean.'
'Ah, but they did! There was two little boys, brothers they were, as had been sent down to the "Jug and Bottle." They saw Sally, and rope and all, skidding along over "The Beetle and Wedge," and tore 'ome to tell their mum and dad.
"Course, all they got was a clump on the ear-'ole for being such a pair of bars, so they never said no more. And years later, when the poor ol' girl had gone, the landlord at the pub said he'd seen her picking plums two or three times, but never liked to say so.'
'I wonder why not?' I exclaimed. Mr Willet sighed patiently.
'You a school teacher and you don't know 'uman nature yet!' he commented. 'Why, people don't mind being thought downright evil and wicked, but they fair hates to seem fools. Ain't you learned that yet, Miss Read?'
He opened the kitchen door and looked out into the windy darkness.
'That coke'll have to wait till morning now. Good-bye, miss, and thanks for the tea. See you bright and early.'
And he vanished into the night.
3. Jingle Bells
M R Willet was as good as his word, and next morning, 'bright and early,' I had my breakfast to the accompaniment of the brushing up of coke in the distance. He was still at it when I crossed to the school, wielding the broom vigorously in his capable hands, his breath wreathing his head in silvery clouds.
'Nasty cold morning,' I called to him, scurrying towards shelter.
'This keeps me warm,' he replied, pausing for a moment to rest on his broom. 'But I s'pose I shan't be doing this much longer.'
'Only three days,' I agreed. 'And then it's the lovely Christmas holidays!'
'You should be ashamed!' said Mr Willet reproachfully. 'Young woman like you, wishing your life away.'
But it was too cold to argue, and I only had time to wave to him before whisking into the shelter of the lobby.
The last day of term, particularly the Christmas term, has a splendour of its own. There is an air of excitement at the thought of pleasures and freedom to come, but there is also a feeling of relaxation from daily routine made much more acute by the deliciously empty desks. Books have been collected and stacked in neat piles in the cupboard. Papers and exercise books have been tidied away. All that remains to employ young hands in this last glorious day is a pencil and loose sheets of paper which have been saved for just such an occasion.
Of course, work will be done. There will be mental arithmetic, and some writing; perhaps some spelling lists and paper games, and stories told to each other. And today, the children knew, there would be Christmas carols, and a visit to the old grey church next door to see the crib recently set up by the vicar's wife and other ladies of the village. The very thought of it all created a glow which warmed the children despite the winter's cold.
They entered more exuberantly than ever, cherry-nosed, hair curling damply from the December air and Wellingtons plastered with Fairacre mud. I began to shoo them back into the lobby before our virago of a caretaker discovered them,
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